Unfortunately, instead of Sophia laughing and commenting how ridiculous it all was, she frowned and nodded, her blond curls bouncing. “Dev told me just before I left.” She glanced around to make certain no one stood within hearing distance—something Emily ought to have thought of before saying anything—and then stepped closer. “St. John spread falsehoods about her before his death. Nothing came of it over the winter, but with the Season starting up, some of the more disreputable bachelors are making bets at White’s. We need to get her out of Town, Emily. They’ve been betting on which one of them can… I cannot even bring myself to say it out loud.”
Oh, but this was horrible! That was why so many of them had swarmed about Rhoda at the Crabtrees’ ball.
“But how?”
“Dev has suggested I host a house party at Eden’s Court. If we can get her away for perhaps a few weeks, then hopefully…”
“Hopefully it will amount to nothing,” Emily finished for her.
But as they met one another’s eyes, they shared unspoken doubt. Gossip could be deadly, and the meatier the morsel, the longer thetonwould chew on it. Unless something else—something equally as scandalous—came along in the meanwhile.
“But a house party, Soph? The Season is just beginning.” And then another thought struck her. “Your household is yet in mourning.” For not only Sophia’s first husband, but for his brother, uncle, and father, who had been the duke before Devlin. They’d all passed last summer.
Sophia shrugged. “I’ll take care of that. I believe I can convince Rhoda to attend as long as you are willing. You don’t mind, do you? I know your parents have been growing impatient with your marital state.”
Her mother would have an apoplexy! But Sophia was a duchess. And for Emily to be invited to a house party hosted by a duchess… Well, she couldn’t turn down such an invitation as that.
“Rhoda’s coming now.” Sophia began waving. “I’ll handle everything. Go along with what I say, and we’ll work out the details later.”
“Of course.” Emily’s heart dropped. How was ever going to land herself a husband in the country?
Anger coursed through Marcus as he strode along the pavement toward Prescott House. This morning, he’d been ejected from not only White’s, but Brook’s and Broodle’s as well. His memberships had all been inexplicably revoked.
Inexplicably! Ha!
To add to the insult, when he’d returned to his lodgings on Curzon Street, the landlord informed him that his room had been let to some other fellow. Marcus’ belongings had been packed by Crandall, his concerned valet, who anxiously awaited his return.
Damn his father and Quimbly to hell!
Marcus intended to leave town straight away. It irked him, though, thinking his father was taking the upper hand in this battle.
He’d collect his horse, hire a traveling coach for Crandall and his belongings, and leave for Brighton at once. Dev had insisted that Marcus board his cattle in the mews at Prescott House, and so he needed to stop by the ducal residence first.
The large house was set back off the street, hidden behind an iron gate and extensively manicured shrubbery. Marcus made his way up the walk and knocked loudly. He stopped cursing under his breath just long enough to announce himself to Prescott’s butler.
Cooling his heels in the foyer, the temptation to turn around and head out of town was strong. His own father intentionally kept visitors waiting. Uninvited ones were frequently sent packing. Marcus studied an impressive painting while he contemplated making a quick exit.
“His grace will receive you. If you’ll follow me, my lord.”
Too late now. The butler led Marcus up the elegant staircase in the direction of the ducal study, where he then held the door open with a nod.
“Excuse me for not standing, Blakely.” Devlin Brookes, the former army captain, spoke softly while reclining on his chair with, of all things, a newborn infant sleeping upon his chest.
Marcus couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight, vaguely aware of the doors being closed softly behind him. “Marriage has changed you. Last year at this time, weren’t you still active duty?”
Prescott nodded. “So much has changed.” Sadness sounded in his voice but also the pride of parenthood. In the last year, Devlin had inherited the dukedom because four others had died. Both of his cousins, his uncle, and his own father. “Did you resolve your membership with White’s?”
Earlier in the day, Marcus had been enjoying a drink with Prescott and Mr. Justin White, another of the duke’s cousins, when the manager had escorted him out.
“As a matter of fact, I have not,” Marcus explained the events that had occurred since they’d parted, trying not to get angry as he did so. He’d no wish to wake the baby and be forced to listen to squalling on top of everything else. “Figured I’d head down to Brighton. Maybe take a packet across to Belgium.”
But Prescott was shaking his head. “Don’t let him chase you that far. Stay here. You know we’ve more rooms than we can ever fill. And then come with us to Kent. We’ll be there for a few weeks. Give you time to rethink matters with Waters. There must be something you can do to thwart the bastard.”
Marcus leaned forward, resting his head in his hands as he contemplated the invitation. He hated any loss of independence. But perhaps Prescott was right. Normally more rational than most fellows, Marcus had allowed his emotions to rule his decisions where his father was concerned.
He nodded slowly. “So, the duchess will be hosting her house party after all?” Devlin had confided to him the duchess’ panic over the gossip about her friend, Miss Mossant. Her grace had suggested removing the poor gel from society until the cloud of scandal passed.
Marcus doubted it would be enough but found himself in no position to judge.
